Metronome
by Stradivari
Summary: It keeps the music in time whether dead or precise beauty, only the player can tell. :: TLC spoilers. Minerva.


**M E T R O N O M E **

-Stradivari-

**:i:**

**i. Allegro: (_per minim_)**

_One two three four five six._

_One two three four five six._

It was ten o'clock in the morning. The city had long since been left behind us and by the light of six, we were on our way home. Butler had insisted- though I could see him glancing backwards as heavy as his promises had been. And of course, it was true; France could never be as beautiful.

He had not spoken.

In all honesty, I didn't expect him to. We stood in line, or walked; listening to the chatter around us resonate in the main hall of the airport. All of which foreign, all of which strange. Did he understand Taiwanese? If he did, there was nothing he translated for me. I did not speak either- save once when the customs official said, cheerily, "Going on holiday, are we?" in terrible English.

And I replied, "Yes- a week in Paris- isn't that right Papa?"- echoing her accent. Poorly done American.

He smiled at me, and I smiled back. It felt like cheating. Yet cheating had never felt like this before.

_Papa._

_One two three four five six._

_One two three four five six._

Mister Kong had left him tied in a car; windows blacked out- though not bullet proof. We found them, parked away from the glare of the traffic and buildings, three long blocks away from Taipei 101. He was still unconscious, sedated. I do not know when he shall wake up. I don't know whether I want him to wake up. I only know that I too, want to fall asleep.

And the question flooded me, just as the ocean below us flooded the earth. It was blue- I could see it clearly, even through the clouds; white laced with smoky grey. Just as the city was, ugly and tormented until that last moment in which everything cleared away. And then I wished I could not see. It was far too blue to be pretty. And it was far too deep. And like the little girl I was, I blacked out the porthole.

Butler had been standing in the middle of the window, after they had gone through. It was as if he could not hear the wind. I heard the wind, heard the traffic below, the cars, the people- heard all this so I did not have to hear them yell across the stretch of space that separated safety and insanity. Then I could be ignorant of what was said because of me…what was done, because of me.

I could have gone up beside him, could have looked instead of looking away. It was that which started it all- cowardice and arrogance. And even in that moment, I had to use logic to guess what was happening because of me. Logic and a calculation of gravity versus the little blue wings the demon 'Holly' had attached to her back. It was all I was capable of- science, and no spirit or heart to confront my consequences. Two rock-like demons to her belt. It was a ridiculously funny picture.

And I remembered- he liked my jokes. He had said so, hadn't he? Then- _he's already gone._

Butler turned back. He confirmed my suspicions. My gaze fell on the remains of the art, recently exposed under spotlights, bright and harsh. Suddenly, I was under those lights with the broken pieces of stone.

Someone spoke. "They're all dead, aren't they? Because of me."

How repetitive. Was this a nightmare, narrated from a script?

Voices came clattering through the corridor behind us. None of which bore an Irish accent. I glanced up, even so, just to let my gaze drop.

_One two three four five six._

_One two three four five six._

The floor was polished enough to show my reflection- dark with the faint essence of wood smothered in chocolate. The thought was hardly sweet; an elixir which brought death in exchange for that brief space of time in which one feels invincible. Poison. Was that what I had taken?

Barely weeks ago, I had viewed those demons as 'beasts' or 'monsters' or simply 'subject'. I still did. Now they were gone, and I could barely recognize the monster reflected in the floor.

**ii. Maestoso: (_per crochet_)**

_One two three four five._

_One two three four five._

Beau was fine.

He had hidden himself in the main bedroom in the east wing- the room Mama used to spend her nights until we were no longer good enough for her. Even Papa pretended the room did not exist. You could see the brim of the sea from the east wing, yet where we slept, you could not tell the ocean was there at all; just within reach. Even Mendelssohn brought the scent of salt, so Papa always left the room while I played those pieces. Beau didn't. But he didn't even know it was Mendelssohn- so that was fine.

We could both pretend the sea never existed, and then she didn't exist either.

There are two reasons why I don't read to Beau anymore. One; he used to love fairy tales, and now did not. Two; I wanted to read those tales.

Now he calls for Papa instead of me.

I thought he always liked me better.

The sea was too blue. It was an unrealistic shade, mimicking, pretending. How I hated deja vu. And in all the poems, I shall describe it as green. Turquoise, perhaps, but green. It was such a fetching colour, though the lawns still bore the scorch marks made when They left with the demons, more than 9 months ago. Perhaps I shall change the décor in the morning room. It is far too gloomy.

_One two three four five._

_One two three four five._

I arranged the furniture in Butler's cottage. He invited me over, once. I wasn't sure- retired or not, he could still kill me. I wanted him to kill me- then everything would be innocent again, and logic would still persist. Logic was everything- I must forget what defied it. I knew Butler would not and could not; one way or the other.

Am I becoming homicidal?

No. It is temporary. Thoughts, emotions, memories- only temporary.

He never told me of the promise. I wasn't included. I was a variable. A variable that went wrong.

He changed, that day. And the only one to kill was he. And the only one who stopped his suicide was Him. I could see it, when he spoke through his eyes, though you wouldn't know from what he said. He had given up pretending. Given up for all, but me.

I should feel shame. I should. But I do not.

_One two three four._

_One two three four._

Papa likes to pretend it never happened. Beau- oddly quiet. He does not like chocolate anymore, and it made Papa smile when he rejected the bar offered to him. Then he hugged him, Beau's arms wrapped around his neck. I wasn't his little girl. I was his daughter; and that was all.

He carried my little brother close to his chest, and disappeared into the hallway that led to the kitchens. With each step, Beau looked back at me, and with each step Papa did not turn. They rounded the corner, decorated with a vase which had survived the attack. A door shut, somewhere.

What they want to be ignorant of, I could only guess. Everything is back as how it is, nothing is missing, nothing is wrong. The house was restored- we had the whole estate under insurance. We are still lacking a head-of-security, however. I'm not sure Papa is going to reinstate that position to anyone. His trust was shattered.

I don't think he loves me anymore.

What Mama would say if she saw what happened in the past year? Could I predict her answer? Would she still come back? Would she cry, if Papa had been killed- because of me? Would she be proud of me? Would she cry, if I died? Had she even heard about what happened? ...I debated with the pen. She would recognize my hand-writing, I'm sure she would. She would miss Beau, at least. She must miss Beau. She has to.

_One two three four._

_One two three four._

Should I write?

I fear I do not want to know the answers. And I fear, because I can. I have done all the wrong things I can do in my life. There is nothing left to forgive. I will forgive myself. I don't need him to come back.

**iii. Adagio (_per quaver_)**

_One two three._

_One two three._

She had given this idea to him almost two years ago. A piano, in the cottage. It seemed the appropriate thing to do; as he played the piano, if only lightly. She brought it up, almost two years ago, sitting cross legged on the chair, a glass of concentrated orange juice in one hand. And almost two years ago, he paused, looking at her with eyes that didn't quite meet her own.

_What about the sea?_

The sea. The house was barely ten meters away from the shore- it was one reason why she hated staying at the cottage. During the day, it was bearable. Conversation could drown them out, just as the water washes away words etched onto the sand. It was the beating of the waves, once, twice, three times upon the shore. Steady- a heartbeat borne by some unseen wind from somewhere she could not see, long gone and long forgotten on another shore in her mind. Stranded there, unspoken. Because of her.

Beau came once- he only had reminiscences of the ocean and loved it. He would yell with childish glee as he ran, full tilt up and down the beach, skipping around the rocks jutting from the sand. For some reason, he had taken a liking to Butler. So had Papa- though he never stayed for long. He didn't allow Beau to, either. Yet when she asked, with unusual timidity, he had nodded calmly and returned to talking on the phone.

Perhaps she should have chosen a better time to ask her father. How immature of her. Talking at the wrong time. Immature. Uneducated. Unrefined. Only thinking about what that _one time _would bring, living only for those few moments in which the other would be made ashamed of himself. It was not a fair exchange for her shame. _You, Mister Kong, are nothing but a thug._

_One two three._

_One two three._

Poison. It did not kill fast enough.

_The salt would ruin the strings._

She did not visit the Manor often- once every two months, unless Mrs. And Mr. Fowl happened to come to the cottage. And over the happy afternoons of tea and scones, she would wonder if they hated her. Looking at His father, she would put down the china cup, smile, and excuse herself from the table. She rounded the corner of the cottage, out of sight. And only then would she stop, leaning against the rough wooden wall, and close her eyes. The wild sand-flowers waved in time to the wind, their small pale petals invisible in the long untamed grass around it.

Returning to the table, she smiled. And they all smiled back.

_It is far too damp, so close to the sea._

Every night, she did not have to venture out side to see the stars who saw what she could not see. Stars that existed, somewhere in the past. _Genius. Can't help it. _She did not have to open the windows to count the number of times the sea spun across the shoreline, far away down the beach dotted with rocks and rock pools. And nor did she have to draw back the curtains to feel the moonlight flicker across her face.

The same moon that would be looking upon His; one way or another. And that night, she stopped crying, looking through the eyes of Diana. And that night, she could pretend that she could see. And when morning came, she slipped into the front room. Butler was already up, watering the flowers in the window boxes. A book lay on the table, its pages fluttering in the breeze brought in from the sea. She lifted the volume to read its title. It was a blank cover. She looked up, and Butler crossed the room to fill the tea-pot.

_One two three._

_One two three._

The piano never played by the sea. Later, she would remember.

Butler shrugged. _It was Artemis who was the pianist._

She stopped, and lowered her fingers from the keys. He reached out and smothered the instrument that was keeping her in time. She did not need it. Bach nor Mozart. She had the waves to keep her in time. The waves, and her thoughts long beaten away.

The lid slid, smoothly black. For a moment, they both stared into the reflective surface, not knowing what it was they looked for. Then the old man moved away, closing the grand. His step faltered by the window. She remained sitting on the stool, her hands clutched in her lap. The Irish waters beat steadily on the shores across the Atlantic.

That was where her heart lost and her mind flew away; a stray ribbon in the air. A little girl. All that was left was worth only a fraction of what she owned before…what she possessed.

And the waltz danced on without her, the metronome ticking away the days.

Eventually, the mechanism slowed and stopped, gradually; she did not notice. She didn't rewind the key. Silver. It protruded like the hilt of a knife in the side of the black triangle.

And the metronome counted no more.

_One two._

_One two._

_One._

**:i:**

**Author's Note: Wrote this as I was in the car, coming back from Recital Comps. Claps for overused extended metaphors! –from Minerva's point of view. Was vague-ish, though the ending was a bit blatant, I think. CC?**

**Please review!**


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